


No.28 Hunting Season

by LiGi



Series: Whumptober 2020 [28]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Whumptober 2020, Younger Arthur, hunting season, no 28, younger merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28037331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiGi/pseuds/LiGi
Summary: Whumptober 2020 no 28 - Hunting SeasonYoung Merlin is hunted for being a sorcerer.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Whumptober 2020 [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053113
Comments: 4
Kudos: 93





	No.28 Hunting Season

**Author's Note:**

> As I wrote they came out seeming younger than I had intended so this is set a couple of years before series one, they are both mid-teens.

**No. 28 – Hunting Season**

Merlin’s hands were untied, the thug holding him yanking the ropes harshly against the soft skin of his wrists. The other two were loading crossbows, the sharp tips of the bolts glinting in the morning sunlight.

Merlin shook, tears dribbling down his face as his legs wobbled. A viscously growling dog was straining at a rope beside one of the hunters. It bared its teeth at Merlin.

“Ready, boy?” the hunter holding Merlin asked, grinning wickedly. He patted Merlin’s cheek roughly then nodded towards the undergrowth. “Run!”

Merlin stumbled as he was pushed backwards. His legs almost gave out but he managed to stagger to his feet. He turned, hating having his back to the men and the dog, and ran as fast as his shaky legs could take him. He heard the men laugh.

Tears blurring his vision, he looked back over his shoulder and made a huge sweep with his arm, shouting the spell with as much force as he could. The wind knocked them all off their feet and one of the crossbows fired into the trees randomly. Merlin hoped they’d been knocked out.

Not looking back again, he began running, tripping over roots and pushing through shrubs. He heard shouting following him. They weren’t knocked out then. They were after him. Hunting him like an animal.

Branches whipped at him as he ran, vines tried to tangle his feet. He slashed at the offending plants with his magic, desperate to get as far from the crossbows and the barking dog as he could. His heart was hammering in his throat, blood rushing in his ears.

A noise to his left made him jump and he veered to the right, desperate to get away from the noise that could mean a hunter. But not fast enough.

Pain exploded in his back, sending him to the floor. He scrambled to his feet, eyes scanning the trees, reaching a hand over his shoulder. A crossbow bolt was stuck in the dip beside his shoulder blade. It lanced pain across his back, up his neck and down his arm. He couldn’t see the hunter but he heard the cry of joy at a successful hit.

He dashed in the opposite direction to the voice, trying to keep his breathing steady. Adrenaline coursed through him, helping him push past the screaming agony. He just had to keep running. He could escape them, he had to.

The forest was loud with bird calls and leaves rustling in the breeze but Merlin couldn’t hear anything other than his own lurching footsteps. His ragged breathing and whimpers of pain that slipped involuntarily from his lips seemed to echo. He was being too loud, they’d hear him, they’d find him.

He pressed his lips together, biting them in an effort to keep quiet. His eyes darted nervously, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Like he was being watched. Trying to move quietly, he pushed forwards a few steps, brushing ferns aside.

He heard the crossbow crack and was jolted to the side as another bolt struck his hip. He cried out, clapped his hand over his mouth and bit his lip again, hard enough for the taste of blood to wash over his tongue.

A quick second shot caught him in the back of his thigh, driving him to the ground. He expected the hunter to come at him through the trees; he must have heard Merlin cry, he must know his shots had hit. Why wasn’t he just coming to finish the job?

Ignoring how the pain spread down his leg, Merlin pulled himself up with the low branches of a tree. He couldn’t let them find him on the floor. The sound of laughter rang through he trees.

Merlin shuddered as horrible thoughts swirled in his mind. He knew why they weren’t finishing him off. Why their shots had not been fatal. They were letting Merlin run. Playing with him before they finally recaptured him and dragged him back to the cell they’d held him in. That is if they didn’t kill him. He could picture them, the three of them circling him, trapping him like a deer for the slaughter.

A fierce snarl behind him made him whip around, ignoring the pain that caused his hip. The dog was poised to leap at him, its hackles raised and spit dripping from its long teeth. Merlin brought all of his magic up, pulling it to his eyes and throwing it at the dog. It froze, its ears went back and it whimpered. Merlin held it with his eyes, forcing his will on it. It turned tail and ran.

And so did Merlin, in the opposite direction, limping.

He couldn’t put much weight on his injured leg, he dragged it as he used the trees to pull himself forwards. He didn’t have time to try a healing spell. He had to keep moving. A pheasant flapped away from him, its noisy crowing sound ringing in his ears.

He struggled onwards. He didn’t know how long he’d been staggering and limping through the trees but there were no more shots, he couldn’t hear the dog anymore. Had they given up? Of course, he wasn’t that lucky. They must be trying to lull him into a false sense of security. He looked over his shoulder and carried on moving.

A scared deer dashed across the way in front of him, making him jump, his heart leaping to his throat again.

Merlin stumbled through the underbrush and suddenly came face to face with another crossbow. The young blond man holding it frowned.

\-----

Arthur’s finger hovered over the crossbow’s trigger, readying to take the shot. The deer blinked slowly, munching grass, it hadn’t sensed him yet. This would be an easy shot.

Something crashed through the undergrowth somewhere behind the deer and it startled, its head flying up, eyes wide. It bolted away and Arthur swore.

Whatever it was that had startled the deer was still lumbering through the underbrush. It sounded like a large animal, probably dangerous. Arthur raised the crossbow again, this time his grip on it for attack and self defence not hunting. He braced it against his shoulder and put pressure on the trigger as the ferns ahead of him rustled.

A boy fell through the fern, stumbling forwards and catching himself against a tree when he saw Arthur’s crossbow. He looked a year or two younger than Arthur, his dark hair plastered to his pale face with sweat. There was blood on his lip. His eyes were wide and fearful just like the deer’s, but bright blue.

“What–” was all Arthur managed to say before he stumbled backwards and tried to run.

Arthur let the nose of his crossbow tilt down, the bolt falling out, and caught his arm. Then found himself flying away from the boy, landing hard on his back in the dirt.

The boy was a sorcerer, probably a druid. Arthur fought to nock the bolt back into his crossbow, lifting it to point at the boy’s retreating back.

And saw three more bolts, already embedded in his shoulder, hip and leg. Someone else was hunting him. Arthur lowered his crossbow, his stomach turning.

He pulled the bolt from the crossbow, shoving it back into the pouch at his waist, then released the catch holding the string. He got to his feet and started after the limping boy. He’d only managed to get a few steps from Arthur, sweat streaming down the side of his face at the obvious effort it was taking him to move.

Arthur darted around in front of him to block his path.

The boy looked at the crossbow and cowered.

“No, please, no!”

The boy’s eyes flared gold and Arthur was pushed back against a tree, his head smacking painfully into the wood. He grunted and blinked against the black dots dancing across his vision.

“Wait!” he shouted.

Shaking his head roughly, which actually made it hurt more, he dropped his crossbow and leapt after the boy, grabbing his arm to pull him back. The boy cried out in pain and fell over. Arthur let go quickly, holding his hands up to his shoulders, palms out.

“I don’t want to hurt you!”

The boy stared up at him, his hands grasping his leg above the bolt. He was panting for breath. His eyes locked with Arthur’s, pleading and frightened.

There was a crashing of footsteps in the undergrowth and three men with crossbows appeared through the trees, a dog slinking along behind them. The boy cried out in alarm. Arthur snatched his crossbow back up, stepping in front of the boy.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Just hunting. You’ve stolen our quarry.”

“Human hunting is banned in Camelot.”

“It’s not human. It’s a sorcerer,” one man spat.

Arthur wavered, his father would agree with this man. His father would turn the sorcerer back over to them and let them kill him.

But he was just boy. A boy with three crossbow bolts sticking out of him. It was unfair. No matter the boy’s crimes, hunting him like an animal was unjust.

He drew himself up to his full height, which admittedly was less than two of the other men. His shoulders squared and he put his prince expression on his face.

“I am Prince Arthur Pendragon,” he said in the strong royal voice that sounded too much like his father’s for him to normally use. “I shall take the sorcerer.”

The men didn’t look like they cared. One cracked his knuckles, another ground his teeth. The one that had done most of the speaking tightened his grip on his crossbow, raising the nose to point at Arthur’s chest.

Arthur bristled. His own crossbow wasn’t loaded. He made a split second decision; yanking his dagger from his belt, he stepped forward and plunged it into the man’s stomach.

The man screamed and dropped to the floor, his crossbow firing off and, to Arthur’s luck, catching one of his companions just below the knee. The dog ran, howling its fear, as its master fell over.

Panting, Arthur raised the dagger on the third man. The man took the bolt from his crossbow and dropped both it and the weapon to the floor. Arthur glared down at the injured men, wiping his dagger against his breeches to clean the blood off.

“Go, now, before I execute you for breaking the laws of the land,” he hissed at the men. The uninjured one and the one with the bolt in his leg reached down to pull the leader to his feet, he had his hands pressed firmly against the wound in his stomach. They staggered off in the direction the dog had run. Arthur watched them until they were out of sight.

He let his head drop to his chest, shoving his dagger back in his belt. He crouched down beside the boy and gently put a hand on his side.

“Why did you do that?” the boy gasped, trying not to flinch as Arthur prodded around the bolt in his hip.

“Human hunting is against the law.”

He couldn’t meet the boy’s eyes. The _sorcerer’s_ eyes. Instead he focussed on the bolt wounds. They looked deep, the hunters had strong crossbows and Arthur wasn’t sure he could do anything to help. He didn’t want to pull the bolts, they were keeping the blood in. And he could never remember the right herbs to use for dressings.

If he could get him back to Gaius…

But… Could he knowingly help a sorcerer? Could he bring a sorcerer into Camelot?

Tears were streaming down the boy’s face and Arthur bit his lip.

“Come on.”

He slung the boy’s arm over his shoulders and hoisted him up. He boy groaned.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you to a physician. Come on,” he repeated.

Arthur wrapped his arm around the boy’s thin waist and pulled him forwards. The boy limped heavily, hissing with pain at every step on his injured leg.

Arthur tried to ignore the fact he was a sorcerer. He was just a wounded boy, being unfairly hunted in a cruel game. As a prince it was Arthur’s duty to protect his people from such things. Nodding to himself, he leant into the boy a little more, taking more of his weight as they struggled towards Camelot.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I love any and all comments!


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